PLUSH EMOJIS

Red light at a desolate intersection forces my handmade purse onto the floor.I look to see who I hate this time.It’s a man with a “that guy” truck and trailersmoking with the windows up.He glances at me—not to gloat, but becausemy shoulders are bare.

Morning coffee inthe mall before the stores open;people watchingas the grey hairs discussgluten, the kids, "the times".-It’s so much worse out there these days.-These godless millennials.-I blame cell phones.

The FedEx man waits for the girl in Old Navy to open the gate and accept his delivery.The man from UPS does the samewith the girl at the import store.I am in a dress, but I feel radicalaccepting no man’s delivery whileawash in discount Ts.

I browse.

Chapters offers Cheryl Strayed whotells me about her wildness in the desertfrom the pages of a book as glossy as my lips.

Plastic bubbles sit in a vending machinecrammed full of plush emojis,adding chance to parodic cheese.How do I feel today?Here’s a toonie and a faux metal crank.

I step outside to feed the meter.‘Fuck the Police’ is plastered over the coin slot.I feel no comradeship with this bid for anarchy.Mine is a clean day of well-trod dreams and little more.

A sign on the highway tells me the lines on the road are being painted;implores me not to cross them.I need to turn left,but I wait until the signs are goneand the still unpainted lines go with them,and the sidewalks with those.

I think to myself thatwhen the lines run outyou’re probably doing something right.

Brianna Ferguson earned her BA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia in 2016. Her writing has appeared in Polychrome Ink, Femmeuary, Mistake House, Effervescent, and the upcoming anthology, Another Place.

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